


Snared

by Esteliel



Series: Snakes, Suits, Sex [1]
Category: His Dark Materials (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sleep Sex, Sugar Daddy Boreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:40:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21609214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: Boreal's dæmon is becoming impatient. Her tail wraps around his shoulder, her tongue tasting the air again, heavy with Thomas’s arousal. He knows what she wants—but Thomas’s dæmon is hidden within his chest. There’s nothing here for her to coil around, to half-strangle or caress as it pleases her, no wide eyes to stare into submission.Boreal enjoys all the amenities of our world - including having a live-in boytoy slash hacker in his lake house.
Relationships: Carlo Boreal/Thomas
Series: Snakes, Suits, Sex [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1567546
Comments: 11
Kudos: 39
Collections: Spicy Advent - Multi-fandom Porn Advent Calendar 2019





	Snared

How many times has he stepped through the window now? He cannot say. Even so, it is still a thrill. There is the abrupt _change_ that is hard to put into words—the quality of light, the subtle difference in temperature, in humidity, in background noise, in scent. The air itself feels different against his skin, in his lungs.

He takes a deep breath, straightens his coat, then strides out into the busy streets of Oxford. He is at _home_ in this strange world in a way that no one in his own world, no matter how powerful, could possibly be. The awareness fills him with a deep, familiar thrill as he takes out his phone and slides his thumb over the screen, messages from several informants popping up which he ignores after a quick glance.

His car is waiting for him, ready to be used, a sleek, elegant machine that makes no sound as he turns it on.

The traffic in Oxford isn’t too bad this early in the day, after the morning rush hour. He drives until he’s left busy streets and tourists behind, trees closing in around him. Half an hour on the winding road through the forest gets him to the lake, the house as quiet as it was when he left it. He parks the car, looks out at the lake, then enters.

There’s a shirt slung over a chair in the living room. His dæmon slides out along his arm, making a soft hiss of distaste, then slides down to explore while he turns towards the fridge.

There are several half-finished takeaway boxes in the fridge. He stares at them, then grabs a can of Coke. He closes the fridge and opens the can, taking a sip as he wanders towards the large window that overlooks the lake where the morning sun is turning the water to liquid gold. Bubbles burst in his mouth and throat. He sips leisurely as he watches the water. When the can is empty, he puts it into the bin, then loosens his tie as he looks around to where his dæmon is coiling on a stash of unopened letters addressed to Charles Latrom. On top rests a large envelope—heavy, expensive paper, embossed.

“Later,” he says, and her mouth opens in a silent little laugh that shows her fangs.

Together, they leave the living room behind, quietly entering the bedroom at the back of the house. It is dark; the curtains are closed. The bed is occupied, even though the alarm clock on the bedside table shows that it is almost 10 a.m.

In the darkness, Boreal strips, carefully folding and putting his clothes away, his fingers gliding over the suits in the wardrobe, considering and then rejecting one after the other. A visit to his tailor might be due. He will have to be at his best for the event next month.

In the darkness, he steps on an abandoned pair of socks. He stands still for a moment, staring at the bed as his dæmon laughs silently at him again.

“Don’t stumble over the sneakers,” she says.

He ignores her as he moves towards the bed and slides beneath the covers. The silken sheets are warm. So is the skin of the man who is asleep in his bed.

He doesn’t wake when Boreal opens a drawer, flicks open the lube, smooths it over his cock. When Boreal presses himself against his back, his cock sliding easily along the crease between his buttocks, he makes a sleepy sound, but it’s not until Boreal presses inside that he comes awake fully, a confused gasp turning into a drawn-out sound of pleasure as Boreal slowly fucks him open.

“You’re early,” Thomas gasps.

Boreal winds an arm around his chest and holds him in place, pinned against the bed. Thomas groans in pleasure when with the next thrust, Boreal buries himself inside to the hilt. His dæmon comes sliding up his back, winds around his neck, scents the air as the hair at Thomas’s nape turns dark with sweat.

Boreal fucks him harder now, makes him take his cock deep with every single thrust, and Thomas is nearly melting into the bed beneath him, writhing in pleasure, not so unlike a rabbit caught in a snare—only this rabbit has no intention of escaping the trap.

Which is a good thing, because Boreal has developed a taste for the easy pleasures of this world, and so far, none of his many crossings have sufficed to sate his hunger.

A moment later, he pulls out. He makes Thomas go to his knees, his longs limbs shaky. Thomas follows easily, panting already, his hole gleaming with lube when he spreads his legs. When Boreal pushes against him again, Thomas immediately pushes back, his body opening eagerly for him, still as hungry for it as the first time Boreal fucked him—more hungry than Boreal, even, who’s had little time for pleasure in the past week.

Thomas is tight and hot and trembling. In his own way, he is just as much of a thrill as the silent, smooth elegance of the Tesla and the sweet burst of bubbles from the can of Coke. It never fails to make Boreal smile to know that he is as much a master of this world as he is of his own.

His dæmon is becoming impatient. Her tail wraps around his shoulder, her tongue tasting the air again, heavy with Thomas’s arousal. He knows what she wants—but Thomas’s dæmon is hidden within his chest. There’s nothing here for her to coil around, to half-strangle or caress as it pleases her, no wide eyes to stare into submission.

Boreal bends over their prey, his tongue tracing Thomas’s sweat-slick nape. He tastes his salt and pheromones with his cock deep inside the vulnerable heat of him, and she is half-soothed, but still displeased enough that she moves from Boreal’s shoulder to the bed, curling around the headboard to stare down at Thomas, who is too overwhelmed to notice her.

“Oh, fuck, please,” Thomas moans, pushing back against Boreal again as he reaches down to grab hold of his own hard cock.

Boreal smiles as he grabs hold of his wrist, easily twisting it against Thomas’s back so that he gasps and arches while Boreal continues to fuck him hard.

“You haven’t been very good, have you?” he says while Thomas whimpers. “Clean up your mess next time.”

“You’re early,” Thomas protests breathlessly again, twisting in his grasp as if he wants to simultaneously escape and impale himself further on his cock.

Boreal pulls back a little, loosens his grip slightly, and with a moan Thomas immediately arches against him, his hole tightening convulsively as if to pull him in deeper. With sound of amusement, Boreal releases his arm at last to grab hold of his hips with one hand, the other arm curving around his throat to hold Thomas tightly against his body.

“Doesn’t matter. Clean up after yourself.”

“All right, sure, anything you say... Charles, _please_ ,” Thomas gasps, and Boreal buries his hand in his hair instead to push him back down into the mattress, his ass up so that Boreal can go on fucking him—and he does, drawing it out a little not to teach Thomas a lesson, but just because he can, and because he has never been someone to rush through something that could be savoured.

He doesn’t touch Thomas until he’s close, and by that point, Thomas is long past words, eyes closed and lips parted as he gasps.

Boreal’s dæmon drops onto the bed, coiling next to Thomas’s pillow, but he is too far gone to notice her. When Boreal finally reaches around to wrap his fingers around Thomas’s cock, he feels him shiver and tighten a moment later, coming so hard that Boreal’s own approaching climax comes almost as a surprise.

At last, Boreal allows his own eyes to close. His hips come forward in a faltering rhythm as pleasure rises until his tight control breaks, and he enjoys even that moment of losing control—here, in this world where so much comes so easily, just for a heartbeat or two, all thoughts fade away but those of the heat of Thomas beneath him, the ease of his surrender, the way his hair curls at his nape and his limbs relax. There’s a lingering satisfaction in the knowledge that he’ll be up for more in half an hour, when he’ll be back to watching Boreal with an awe that is not at all like that which greets him whenever he enters a room in his own world, for all that there is a hint of fear in Thomas as well.

His dæmon is simultaneously amused and affronted by his thoughts. She can’t make up her mind about Thomas. He’s useful, yes—he’s a pleasant diversion, as fascinatingly different as cold cans of Coke and little packets of crisps, but ultimately, there’s no cure for her impatient longing to curl her sleek, powerful body around a trembling dæmon, soft to the touch and unable to escape the power of her stare.

“It’s almost noon,” Boreal says when he moves to his side next to Thomas, stretching before he opens the curtains. “What the hell are you still doing in bed?”

Thomas flinches when the bright sunlight fills the room. “I was up late,” he says. “I work well at night. You know that.”

Boreal makes an unimpressed sound, then reaches out for the drawer where he knows Thomas hides his midnight snacks. He pulls out a Curly Wurly and opens the packaging. “No reason to let the place go to hell. Clean up after yourself. I mean it.”

“I hacked a Roomba,” Thomas says, looking inexplicably proud of himself. “Thing kept getting stuck. Want to see it?”

Boreal considers, then shakes his head. “Later. I hope that’s not what kept you up.”

Thomas looks almost insulted. “Don’t worry. I know what you want. I’m working on something—”

“Did you get those blueprints?”

“Of the British Museum? Yes,” Thomas says, then sits up to peer at him. “Are you going to tell me what they’re for? I could help better if I knew what you’re planning.”

Boreal considers that for a moment. He’s not wrong. Still, there’s time. Thomas will know when all the other pieces have moved into position.

“Not now,” Boreal says. His dæmon comes to lazily slide up his chest, and when Thomas moves forward with that wide-eyed awe of his, playfully bares her teeth at him, silently laughing when he flinches back.

Somewhat reassured by his reaction, she slides her head upward, brushing it in a caress against Boreal’s ear.

For all of her impatience, there really is more than enough time to play.

He reaches out, slowly stroking down her back as he eyes Thomas, who looks as if he hasn’t shaved in days—lost in the hunt for whatever information has aroused his interest, no doubt.

“Go have a shower,” he says. “You need one.”

Thomas smiles a little, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “And whose fault is that?”

He gets up, though—he is generally good about following orders, which is one of the reasons Boreal likes to keep him close, here in this house by the lake that truly offers him all the amenities of this world.

“I’ll make coffee,” Boreal says generously. “And then I have a task for you.”

Thomas smiles again. “Of course.”

He walks all the way to the door, then stops there and turns around, still naked, and it’s not an unattractive look at all—the sunlight giving his hair a reddish sheen, his stomach still wet with come, well-fucked and utterly at ease now with the way both Boreal and his dæmon watch him.

“By the way,” he says, “you need a shower, too.”

Boreal smiles in acknowledgment, his dæmon’s tongue touching his ear in admonishment. But then, what’s the harm? Ultimately, it affects his plans as little as the half-eaten Curly Wurly in his hand.

Perhaps the coffee can wait.


End file.
